I really like to work with wood, I know how to use a variety of tools, and in theory, I know how to measure and cut accurately.

But I hate measuring and cutting accurately.

I hate doing anything absolutely accurately – especially in sewing and knitting – though some have accused me of being a perfectionist in other aspects of my life. I suppose it’s true in my paid work involving information and searchability because some things really don’t have wiggle room, but in my visual life, I like the wiggle.

So when it became apparent we couldn’t live much longer with the missing balusters and five broken steps in our staircase and their various murderous wiggles and cracks that pitched us forwards and back when we least suspected it, I knew we needed professional help since I’d either waste too many lovely red oak treads trying to get them right, or they just never would be right enough.

But it’s odd to have someone working in the house with familiar sounding tools – I keep thinking N might be home and tinkering. But then the carpenter uses something particularly loud and wicked-sounding – like something from the opening song to American Horror Story – and once again, I feel the stairs are attempting to murder me – or rather, the stairs convinced the seemingly slightly unhinged carpenter to do their bidding.

But if I did in fact live to tell the tale, our staircase is now smooth-stepping.

Now I just have to oil the new steps, and sand and oil the old (along with the nasty floor below them).

(It also didn’t help that the carpenter told me he keeps some old oak balusters by his bed for protection… I’m kicking myself for not coming up with a witty retort in time along the lines of: “um, most people use condoms.” And I didn’t ask if he’d be adding some of ours with their rusty nail spikes to his collection.)

Thankfully N is an ace at measuring and cutting various trims and moldings, so we should be on our own merry way from here on out.